I started writing about parallel universes a while ago, and I was on my third paragraph already when I stopped typing and looked at what I have written so far. I read it and I wasn’t feeling proud of it and I didn’t know how to go on writing it. I threw my hands up and told myself “because this isn’t your truth”. Since I started writing again recently, I told myself that I would speak only of my truth no matter what other people will say. I have learned not to be afraid anymore. The problem with me and my writing back then was that I was very cautious with what I write. I keep thinking, “Will people like this?” “What will they think when they read what I have to say?” So, the articles that I wrote turned out to be stiff, impersonal, and lacklustre. Then I started writing for myself because I found it therapeutic and as some sort of release but the problem is, other people couldn’t appreciate it because it was all about me. And now I realised that I have to write about my truth that other people consider as their truth as well. I wanted to throw it all out there in the hopes of reaching someone who is also going through the same predicament as I am. Or just simply put it out there and hope that it will resonate with other people and hopefully stir them a little, touch that dormant part of them and make them think that they are not alone in all of this.
Whenever I try to write, I’ll know when I’ve tapped in and I’m in the zone because I keep hacking away at the keyboard like I’m copying something. The ideas and the words just keep flowing out and I have to keep up so they won’t disappear and I’ll forget them. To be honest, right now, I am not tapped in. I am not in the zone because I want to write about something that I’m not ready to talk about yet, but I want to write about it now.
I wanted so bad to write about you but I don’t know where to start. Probably because there is nothing to start with in the first place. I wanted to write about you because in order for us to exorcise the demons of memory, we must tell them as a story. I think that if I can finally write about you, then it would be a form of release for me and then maybe you wouldn’t be the first thing that I think about when I wake up. Then maybe I wouldn’t think about how you are doing in certain times of the day. Then maybe when I hear that song play on my Spotify, I wouldn’t remember you dancing to it. Then maybe it wouldn’t be as heavy in my chest when I finally leave.
The reason why I was writing about parallel universes a while ago was because scientists have this theory that there are other worlds that exist other than this. That the choices that we’ve made created alternate realities and right now, from what I’m feeling, the idea of the existence of alternate realities seem very comforting to me. It comforts me because maybe, just maybe, in an alternate reality, the choices that you and I made are far from what we have chosen now. That maybe, just maybe, I would have been enough and I would be focused in this reality rather than mumble about some scientific theory about an alternate reality that is light years away ahead of us.
All things considered, the reason why I’m not in the zone and hacking away at my keyboard is because the words are not overflowing. No words are streaming out of my mind because I feel so empty. That when it comes to writing about you, I look inside and it’s a black hole. But I keep pushing to write because I keep hoping that one morning I’ll wake up and you won’t be the first thing I’ll be thinking about and I won’t even notice it.